Duty(65)
“Sir?” First Sergeant asks as I leave the Hummer behind to get set up and head back toward second platoon, which is in the middle of my area.
“What's up, Top?”
“Sir, the men are worried. No offense. If the bad guys hit us hard, we could be in for a world of shit.” First Sergeant looks at me pensively, and I stop, casually looking down the road. Behind me, the town's buttoned up, with every civilian Afghan burrowed as deep as they can. These people have been living through this for nearly forty years now, if you include the Soviet occupation. It's a part of life for them as common as a snowstorm in Michigan or a hurricane in the Carolinas.
Top's right though. I'm pretty unproven, other than slipping them some comforting snacks from home every once in a while. We haven't been under fire yet, not on this rotation, and they don't know me well enough to trust me. Okay, I can handle it. “I understand, Top. Say, you know much about the Spartans? The ancient ones.”
“Negative, sir. Captain Stephens told us about Molon Labe, but that's about it.”
“Crazy battle, Thermopylae,” I reply, picking up a rock and tossing it away where it flies into the night. “But I like something else in Spartan history. During the rise of Phillip of Macedon—he was Alexander the Great's father—he wanted to take over the Peloponnese, the part of Greece where Sparta is located. He assembled what may have been the greatest army in the world at the time, and by this point, the Spartans were nowhere near the fighting force they'd been under Leonidas, but they still had their reputation and their pride. So, Phillip sent them an emissary with a message. In it, he threatened them. He said, 'Surrender, for if my army invades Sparta, we will kill every Spartan male, and every Spartan woman will be raped and made our slave. Your children will be sold into slavery, your old people slaughtered. Your crops will be burned, and no stone will be left unturned in the ruins of your villages.' You know what the Spartan reply was?”
“Negative, sir. What did they say?”
I smile and look at the First Sergeant, ready. “They sent back a one-word reply. 'If.' Phillip of Macedon never invaded Sparta. Got me?”
First Sergeant nods, his eyes looking at me with newfound respect. “I got you, sir.”
“Then spread the word. If.”
“If, sir.”
Top hustles off, and I take a deep breath, hoping that little speech wasn't just bullshit. A rifle cracks in the distance, and I hurry off. It's time.
Dawn breaks, and I'm limping, blood soaking the lower half of my right ACU trouser leg, a ricochet that clipped the meat of my calf sometime during the fire fight. I'm exhausted, but I can't rest, not yet. Not until I know that my men are safe.
My God, the enemy fought hard, with bravery and ferocity that, even though they were my enemy, earned my respect. Attacks on horseback, attacks on foot, any and everything they could think of to break through our defenses. As Lieutenant Colonel Kierney expected, most of the attacks came against the southern perimeter of town, although Headquarters Company soaked up plenty of probes themselves.
My face is covered in gray dust, and I'm not sure if it's dust or the souls of the men who have died tonight, clinging to my face in a desperate attempt to be reborn instead of departing to the afterlife. Even with the advantage that night vision gave us, they were able to get close, and more than once, I squeezed off bursts that blew open men's chests so close that I could see the light leave their eyes as they died.
The worst attack was just before dawn, when what sounded like the entire f*cking Afghan horse cavalry charged against the center of the Spartans, their voices raised high in a piercing, screeching war cry that had more than one person pissing their pants in fear. It was the only time in the entire battle when I was worried, not because we were absorbing too many casualties but because we were going to run out of ammunition. They poured against us in wave after wave, not caring about our rifles picking them off, our machine guns tearing them apart. They just didn't care. They were devoted, powered by something more fanatic than a desire to keep living.
Finally, when I was on my last magazine, there was a bugle call and the attacks stopped, the warlord's troops melting into the remnants of the night. It's only then that I notice the pain in my leg, and I slap a bandage on, hoping it just caught muscle and not anything deeper. At least I can still walk. That's a good sign, I hope.
The radio crackles, and my radioman, PFC Redman, talks into it. “Sir? It’s the battalion commander.”
I take the handset and key the mike. “Eagle Six, this is Spartan Six, go ahead.”
“Spartan Six, be advised, Zoomies got two Predators in the sky. They say they've got nothing in the area in terms of hostiles. Also be advised, there are three Blackhawks inbound to evac casualties. ETA ten minutes. Over.”
“Eagle Six, copy that. I'll have my First Sergeant start gathering them up.”
“Spartan Six, roger. Keep your eyes open, but . . . fine job, Spartans. Eagle Six out.”
I hand the handset over to Redman. The sun breaks over the horizon, and finally, after what seems like forever, I sit down. I'm so tired, but the mission isn't over yet. I just need to close my eyes for a few minutes, that's all. Just a few minutes.
Chapter 22
Lindsey